Mrs. Clayland was rejoiced to see her, for it had been several weeks since Grace had called, and she was eager to tell her of the great tree up in the ravine that had been blasted by the lightning, and about the beautiful little waterfall caused by the Cherry Creek freshet.
Grace listened patiently as she rested, and asked questions that she had asked many times before, because it pleased the old lady to tell of all the beautiful spots and dainty bits of landscape in her vicinity. That was next to being the artist.
Prince stood by, looking with intelligent eyes, first at the visitor and then at his mistress, wagging his tail wistfully as though eager to be off, for he seemed to realize that this was his holiday too.
"Are you ready to go, Prince?" asked Grace, patting the dog on the head as she looked into his great brown eyes.
Prince licked his mouth and pushed his nose close under her hand while his tail wagged violently. "Yes, of course he is. I wish my old limbs would let me go too, but I can't even hobble to-day for the rheumatism has been dreadful the last week," said Mrs. Clayland, as she wiped her spectacles.
Grace hardly knew what to say, for here was just the place for a little sympathy, and yet she must shut her eyes to false beliefs and conditions, so she wisely talked of the beautiful day, the warm air, and what not, while secretly resolving that Mrs. Clayland should be her first patient if she ever knew how to treat patients according to the Christ method. In the mean time, she would give her some thoughts.
While Mrs. Clayland volubly rattled on, talking of all her aches and pains, Grace was doing her best to think of the very opposite statement, that she was well.
At last, however, with Prince trotting gaily in front of her, she began her rambles in earnest. She knew of a beautiful view from one of the hills near by, and slowly wended her way thitherward. The hush and quiet of the place seemed such a relief after the troubled hours of the past night, and as she came to the gentle slope of the grassy hill, she threw herself into the soft warm grass, in the shade of a stately elm that stood there alone, and gave herself up to thinking—thinking of the deepest and most sacred problems in human experience.
Prince came and laid himself at her feet. The soft autumn sunshine played here and there upon her form and face through the leaves, while the occasional note of a bird or hum of an insect were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the lonely place. What an exquisite pleasure to lie there and breathe in all this wonderful peace, for it was like a taste of heaven. Far away from all perplexities and cares, she could have lost herself in sweet forgetfulness but for this one theme that would persist in thrusting itself upon her. At last it had resolved itself into the form of a question. Should she or should she not write to Leon Carrington? Might it not be possible she had been misinformed, and that she was mistaken in her hasty conclusions?
Life presented a different aspect now from what it had two years ago. She was more lenient in her judgments, more charitable in her opinions, more softened in her pride; changed more than she ever realized until she began the self examination on this point. To be sure she had desired to change in these respects, since she had seen a glimpse of the possibilities of Christian life. She had denied all qualities of character in herself that seemed undesirable, and had affirmed charitableness, patience, wisdom, but that she could ever have changed her mind on this subject seemed incredible and utterly inconsistent.